


Shield of Thorns

by Crescence



Series: Et Nos Vivet [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Noctis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia, Gaslighting, Gladio Gets Some Sense Knocked Into Him, Gladio Redeption Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25894912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crescence/pseuds/Crescence
Summary: “Dad used to say a shield of thorns can protect no one,” Iris mutters. “After everything you have been through together, I thought you understood what that meant.”-----A Gladiolus Amicitia Redemption Fic-----
Relationships: Noctis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia
Series: Et Nos Vivet [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1821565
Comments: 6
Kudos: 70





	Shield of Thorns

**Author's Note:**

>   
>    
> Direct Continuation of [You, Timebound.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25187326)   
> Posted separately for the subject matter however for context, Timebound should be read.  
>   
> [Song Suggestion](https://open.spotify.com/track/4EKMLcDmI7I5bORpsWgQg1?si=mBnEtDFPQMCx19I1ldMYfQ)  
> 
> 
>   
>  Start Playing at Noctis.   
> 

* * *

Ignis

At the door of the royal wing, Ignis reaches with both hands to cup his King’s face, the blue of Noctis’ eyes are streaked with blooms of red from his long night, and yet in the hold of morning light they are calm and quiet. 

“Please sleep,” Ignis implores him.

Noctis places his hands over his, smile fond. "We have the budget appraisal for rebuilding the transportation network in two hours."

“I’ll push it to the afternoon. 2 pm.”

“That’s not very Hand of the King of you,” Noctis notes, his smile getting wider, tired eyes crinkling at the corners. Under his hands, Ignis can feel the graze of his overnight stubble. He leans his forehead to his, unrelenting. 

_“_ Sometimes the Hand needs to put the King to bed.”

Noctis closes his eyes. The morning sun streams from tall arched windows and tangles with specks of dust hovering listlessly in the stillness. Against the midnight dark of his hair, they shimmer like snow crystals blown into the air. “Stay with me then,” he mutters. Ignis feels the breath in his lungs simmer with longing.

“Let me sort this out”, he whispers to him as Noctis opens his eyes. “Then I’ll join you.”

"Good," Noctis responds, eyes flitting as he watches his face. Then he runs the tips of his fingers along his jaw before he leans in. The blue turns cerulean in the sunlight and he kisses him, lighter than the stardust dancing around them.

Exhaustion hums in his bones as Ignis waits for the elevator to arrive. He raises his head to the grace of the winter sun, closing his eyes to its touch of light. The night plays out within the orange glow behind his eyelids, the maddening heat and pressure of Noctis between his legs, moving against him, the longing he saw in his eyes for the darkness of the sea as he stood at the edge of the overlook, the excruciating sound he made when his pain finally broke loose, his last request still whispering through the hair on his arms… _stay with me then._

The elevator dings and the door slides open. Dressed in the full regiments of his black and gold Lord-Captain uniform, Gladio steps out. Before Ignis can greet him, he erupts like a thunderstorm.

“Where the hell were you?”

“I beg your pardon? _”_ Ignis asks, eyebrows rising.

“The Crownsguard told me you took off with him in the middle of the night,” Gladio practically bellows, one hand pointing out the window. “Alone! Where the hell were you?”

Ignis regards him with an empty weariness, a feeling so old, stretched across the unforgiving darkness of the Long Night, he can barely remember a time his relationship with Gladio wasn’t bent under its strain. He sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose with his fingers, a habit of long years behind a pair of glasses. “The King needed to get some air,” he answers curtly, not particularly accommodating with such pointless display of fury from him so early in the morning. 

Gladio’s anger turns to astonishment, then to incredulity. Sharp brown eyes narrow and he lets out a burst of humorless laughter, raising both of his hands in casual disregard. “All these years and you still baby him _,”_ he spits out, accusing. Before Ignis can object he raises a hand.

“Don’t bother. The King needed to get some air,” he repeats, pointing towards the royal wing with his head. “What happened, he got bored being stuck in his office having to do homework?” Gladio asks, derision dripping like venom from his tone. “You had to take him out on a ride so he could nap in the backseat?”

Rage floods into him so fast, Ignis feels his vision flush red, the wave of it surging through his nerves, instant and vast. His hands clench into fists on either side of him, the blood in his veins turning to ice. “I will only tell you this once, Gladiolus,” he snarls, jaw set, voice brumal, fiercely pleased to see Gladio notice the way he addressed him, bereft of its usual familiarity. “The next time you disrespect the King before me, I will not tolerate it.”

“You’re serious,” Gladio stares at him agape. They stand there in the bite of heavy tension, glaring at each other for a long moment before Gladio huffs with open slight, looking away.

"Glad we sorted that out," Ignis concludes crassly and walks past him into the elevator, pressing the button for where he needs to go. Gladio grabs the door of the elevator and stops it from sliding into place, his anger now in full display in the sharp cut of his brows and the flare in keen amber eyes.

“What the hell is wrong with you? There are still rogue Magitek units out there, programmed to kill him! You left the city!”

“When have I ever put his life in danger?” Ignis asks, deadly calm, cold as ice.

“We don’t have magic anymore, Ignis! You can’t protect him just by being by his side.”

“I don’t need magic to protect him,” Ignis replies before he takes a step forward until there is barely a foot between them and pries Gladio’s hold from the elevator door with a single hand. “As to being by his side,” he adds, eyes fixed to his, “At least I can say I always have been.”

The door of the elevator closes as Gladio’s jaw tenses, his fury so tangible, Ignis can still feel its tides fifteen floors below.

* * *

Iris

Iris Amicitia of the Lucian Crownsguard, former Daemon Slayer of the Long Night, sits at her brother’s desk, sifting through the reports brought to Lord-Captain Gladiolus Amicitia’s office from all corners of Eos. Reports from Niflheim, bearing the seal of Prompto Argentum goes on top of a stack of papers marked important to be briefed to the King at the next council meeting. Next to be added to the pile is a stack of reports from Libertus Ostium at his post at Galahd noting the reopening of the limestone mine in the region that had been closed for over fifty years. His detailed accounts and unembellished records, crucial to assessing the resources necessary to restore the Lucian outer lands. Among the remaining reports, Aranea Highwind’s sigil catches her eye and she smiles as she quickly reads through her report outlining the transport of Lestallum’s overflowing populace to the reclaimed cities and towns of Cleigne and Leide, and can’t help but laugh at her complaining the only thing she has poked with her spear in the last few months being a particularly snappy Voretooth.

As she puts her report down, her brother storms into the office, fuming. Gladiolus slams the door close and starts pacing in the room as Iris watches him. 

“That isn’t a very nice way of entering a room, brother,” she says, her disapproval clear in her voice.

“Yeah sorry, I am pissed,” Gladio answers as if that needed any clarification.

“I can see that. Though, I did say-”

“Don’t start, Iris-” 

“Well, I told you it would be fine. I don’t know why you insisted on confronting him about this, we both know-”

“It could have been dangerous!”

“We both know,” Iris repeats around a sigh. “There is no Magitek presence left in Lucis. The Crownsguard and Aranea’s men have nearly hunted down all that remains in Niflheim as well. Considering how much you love reading, I don’t suppose you missed those reports.”

“I am the Shield of the King,” Gladio counters. “How the hell am I supposed to protect him if I don’t even know where the hell he is?”

Iris watches him go back and forth between the desk and the door for a moment.

“Are you upset he could have been hurt or are you upset he didn’t tell you where he went?” she asks as she stacks the remaining reports into a neat pile and places them at the corner of Gladio’s desk.

Gladio stops pacing and looks up at the ceiling, his hands dig into his hair and slide down to rest at the back of his head. He sighs.

“I thought this shit would stop now that he is the King,” he says.

“What shit?” Iris asks, eyes narrowing. 

“Sneaking out at night, being irresponsible like this. I can’t believe Ignis of all people, plays along with him acting like a petulant child.”

Iris stares at her brother’s profile, her lips thinning as the famous Amicitia rage, usually dormant in her as the least hotheaded member of the family in two generations spikes behind her eyes.

“When has Noctis been petulant?” she demands so coldly Gladio lowers his arms to meet her fiery gaze. 

“Have you not-”

“From the moment that sun you are currently pouncing in like a mad Coeurl rose on the horizon, Noct has been working day and night not only for the people of Lucis but for the entire Star.”

“I didn’t say-”

“Yes, you did say,” Iris stands up and glares at her brother from behind his desk. “He has single-handedly brought three crumbling nations together, leading rescue efforts across two continents while organizing resettlement plans and clawing resources from ash and rubble to keep all these people fed.” She walks around the table, waving a hand towards the citadel’s tall windows, her ire such a force Gladio takes a step back. “He never complained, never turned a single person away, never even considered abandoning a region without making sure everyone was rescued. You were standing beside him,” she jabs a finger into his chest, making Gladio startle with surprise. “You were there, Shield of the King, when he was knee-deep in daemon remains in Crestholm Channels digging through the rubble among hundreds of us with his bare hands to reopen the tunnels to get water to Leide.”

“I know all of that!” Gladio shouts, looking down at her. 

“Do you?” Iris shouts back. “Do you really understand the weight of the responsibility he is carrying? Do you realize how tired he is? If you had ever been curious and asked a single Crownsguard after a night’s duty, they would tell you he doesn’t sleep. Have you ever bothered to notice that? Do you notice when his hands shake and he tries to hide it in his raiment? Do you realize how much you hurt him as he sits on his father’s throne and you dare to joke about him finally acting like a King with half the Crownsguard present?” 

Gladio falls silent and stares at her until he can’t. He puts his hands on his hips and looks away, unaware of the last shreds of admiration Iris had held for her big brother breaking against the obdurate jut of his chin. 

“You are supposed to be his friend,” she tells him quietly, her anger drowning in sadness. “And you wonder why he doesn’t tell you when he needs to get away.” She walks past him to the door and pauses, hand on the handle.

“Dad used to say a shield of thorns can protect no one,” she mutters. “After everything you have been through together, I thought you understood what that meant.”

Silence ruptures between them like the fracture from an earthquake and as her disillusion blurs her vision, Iris leaves her brother’s office, her footsteps echoing through hallways drenched in sunlight. 

* * *

Cor

The sound of successive blows echoes in the training room. In the dark of night, under the dim bluish light of a strip of fluorescents along the far wall, Gladiolus Amicitia stands in perfect form before a punching bag in the corner, arms wrapped up to his elbows, fists landing hard blows at the right-center of it. The rhythm of his strikes is in faultless harmony with his breathing; a long inhale through the nose as he adjusts his posture and short bursts of breath let out with each punch, and repeat. Sweat drips from his chest and splatters into the air as he moves, his hair tied into a ponytail at the back of his head, already drenched. 

Cor watches him for a few minutes as Gladiolus pummels the punching bag, whatever he imagines he is hitting apparently not taking much damage regardless of how much fury he levels at it. Eventually, he walks up to him, making his presence known and leans against the wall on his left, his jacket scrunched between his hands in front of him. Gladiolus only pauses for a second to acknowledge him before he resumes, what Cor can only describe as, thrashing Lucian public property.

“After the past ten years I can’t believe I am saying this,” Cor notes artlessly, “but I don’t think there is anything left in Eos you need to hit that hard to take down.”

“Do you need me for something?” Gladiolus replies between cycles.

“Not really,” Cor responds crossing his arms in front of him, his jacket tucked under one. “I didn’t see you at the Crownsguards’ shift change this evening. Figured you’d be here.”

“Iris was there,” Gladiolus mutters through gritted teeth. “She’d have overseen it.”

“Oh, she has.” 

Gladiolus stops and steadies the punching bag with a hand. “Then why are you here?”

“I thought I’d check if you were still alive because it seemed like she really wanted to punch her way through a few sandbags too.”

“Maybe she should,” Gladiolus replies, eyes on his hands as he begins to unwrap the bandages.

Cor lets out a burst of genuine laughter. “There’d be none left for you.”

Gladiolus huffs then lets slip a small, proud smile, nodding. “She _was_ trained by Cor, The Immortal.”

“I don’t think I can take much credit for it,” Cor muses. “She asked me for years to let her go out hunting during the Long Night and when I finally give in, she becomes the Daemon Slayer of the Hunters’ Guild in less than a year.” Cor pushes off the wall and hands Gladiolus a towel from the bench. “She is a true Amicitia.”

Gladiolus takes the towel and stares at it for a long time before he sighs, shoulders sagging. “Definitely the better one,” he mutters quietly.

Cor watches the man he used to teach fighting with wood swords and polearms as a boy in the halls of this very room, the fire in his heart the brightest he had ever seen even as a child. “You both have your strengths,” he answers warmly, tilting his head to the side.

Gladiolus wipes his sweat with the towel and throws it around his neck, bandages dangling from his hand. For a moment he stands there, looking at his feet before he raises his head to meet his eyes. 

“You told me once that a Shield is nothing with nobody to protect,” he says, brows drawn in, voice tight. “For ten years, he was gone, and all I wanted was to be able to stand between him and anything that could hurt him again. All I ever wanted was to be worthy of him. Worthy of being the Shield of the King. Like my father was.” Gladiolus’ hands close into fists and Cor notices his knuckles splotched with angry red rashes from hours of hitting a punching bag.

“And now he is back and I feel like he is farther away than he was when he was locked in that damn Crystal and I don’t know how to reach him,” Gladiolus looks down, pained, unable to hold his gaze. 

Cor averts his eyes from his shame and walks away to the sparring area to give him space. He looks into the silver light pouring in from the clerestories into the training hall, cut against arches that bend along the ceiling, a pale path of light into every window. 

“Do you remember before you set sail for Altissia ten years ago,” he speaks into the silence, marred only with the distant buzz of traffic outside the Citadel. “I had this leg injury I got while helping hunters? Even with potions, I had trouble walking for a while.”

“Vaguely,” Gladiolus answers behind him, clearly confused. 

“A few weeks after the Dawn, Noctis asked me if my injury was better. I couldn’t remember what he meant.” Cor turns back to Gladiolus, meeting his eyes. “I didn’t remember, because for me, it had healed ten years ago, I had so many other injuries since then. But for him, it had barely been a couple of months since it happened.”

Gladiolus holds his gaze, understanding dawning in his eyes. Old pride spreads through Cor, tender and familiar.

“You need to understand that he is dealing with the loss and tragedy of an entire decade at once,” he tells him, the helplessness in Gladiolus’ eyes a feeling as recognizable as if his own. “He is no longer the Prince you knew. He isn’t Regis either. You can’t treat him as either of these things.”

“I know he has changed,” Gladiolus mutters impassionately. “I respect him for it.“ 

“But do you understand why or what it cost him?” Closing the distance between them, Cor places a hand on Gladiolus’ shoulder. “As the Glaive or the Crownsguard, we must always adapt. Our loyalty can never be conditional. We serve the King, not to an idea of him we deem worthy.” He feels Gladiolus flinch under his hand. 

“And as his Shield,” Cor gives his shoulder a squeeze, “you can only be as strong as the faith you have in your King.”

* * *

Prompto

Snowfall over Insomnia is something Prompto thought he would never miss. He was never a fan of cold and the Crown City of his childhood with its foreboding skyscrapers and streets of stone would quickly turn into a dark maze of dullness in the icy dormancy of winter. But now, he finds peace in the kind of quiet that comes with snowfall, shrouding everything in a standstill. The crunch of his footsteps on the snow through rows and rows of gravestones hardly disturbs the silence of winter’s hold. He raises his head to an ivory sky with no end as flakes of white fall into the quiet, slow and indolent. It is one of those things he knows he will never be able to capture in the print of a picture.

Past the skeleton-bare silhouettes of careworn trees, his eyes land on a figure, standing before a pair of graves.

“Gladio?”

The figure turns at the sound and Prompto walks towards him. 

“Prompto? When did you get to Insomnia?” Gladio asks as they hug and pat each other on the back.

“This morning,” Prompto answers before he kneels before the graves of Gladio’s parents to pay his respects. For a moment they both listen to the shiver of silence.

“Thank you,” Gladio gratefully nods with his head when he stands up.

“Pshhh,” Prompto waves him away. “I was actually on my way to the Citadel,” he explains while patting snow off his knees. “I haven’t even been to my apartment yet.”

“Why are you here?” Gladio gestures at the mass of gravestones around them.

“Oh,” Prompto hesitates, his gloved hand instinctively touching his right wrist. “I, uh, kinda promised myself I’d come here after Gralea. To visit my folks.”

Gladio looks over his head towards where Prompto’s adoptive parents rest. Eyes of amber brown glint softly under the fold of his beanie before he meets his gaze again. “I’m sure they’d appreciate that.”

“I never had a chance to, you know, thank them,” Prompto says with a small smile. “After seeing Gralea," his smile falters, memories of the city of ash still fresh behind his eyes, “it kinda gives you perspective. I was alone most of the time but… I was also lucky they took me in.”

Gladio looks towards the row of trees. His breath a silver wisp of winter before his face, Prompto follows his gaze to the groove where streaks of branches glazed with white frost dip their tips into the snow. He has always loved willow trees.

“It’s good you aren’t hiding it anymore,” Gladio speaks and when Prompto looks up at him, he meets his gaze, pointing at his wrist with a slight jerk of his head where half of a barcode is visible between his glove and the sleeve of his jacket. 

Prompto’s first mission to Gralea was an unexpected, painful revelation, one he isn’t sure he could have managed as well without Aranea Highwind. His origins had always been a mystery to him, one he couldn’t find the ends of and had no idea how to tug loose, his only clue a row of lines on his wrist he could not decipher. But it was there all along, hidden underground within the depths of the labyrinthine Zegnautus keep, where hundreds of him were sealed in capsules, asleep. He had spent hours among the journals of Verstael Besithia, Aranea right beside him, finally uncovering the truth about himself, nearly thirty years after he had been spirited away from the keep and brought to Lucis to be adopted by the Argentums.

At first, he was terrified of telling Noctis what he found, what the purpose of his existence was but Noctis told him it made no difference. One by one, those whose opinions Prompto most valued told him he was what he made himself to be, not what others had intended. Then going back to Gralea was his choice. He decided to use the codeprint branded on him to break open every door inside the Zegnautus Keep and several other facilities across Gralea, to help Noctis’ efforts to search and rescue whoever remained.

Four months after learning the truth, he bears his barcode as a reminder that no path is set in stone, chains of fate bound no one, and he is his own maker, despite where he was born.

Prompto gives Gladio a small smile. “I have these friends that told me that the only thing I should be embarrassed about is that it’s a really shitty tattoo design.”

Gladio smiles back, the warmth of it honey in his eyes. “Sounds like pretty good friends to me. But hey,” he pats him on the shoulder, “at least the rest of you makes up for it.”

Prompto bursts into laughter, its chime resounding across the snow-clad valley, light and brilliant in the inveterate hush among stones of granite; hundreds of them empty, just names resting through time.

They start walking their way back, side by side before Prompto nudges him with his shoulder. “What about you?” he asks. “What brought you here?”

Gladio doesn’t immediately answer, head down, hands in his pockets. Prompto gives him the time he needs to gather his thoughts, walking quietly beside him as he listens to the crunch of snow beneath their feet.

“I’m not sure if I am a good Shield,” Gladio mutters. Prompto looks up at him, surprised.

“Why do you think so?”

“If I am the Shield of the King,” Gladio speaks slowly, his voice low in the stillness, “I should be aware of his pain. I should know when he is afraid. Protect him.”

“Should?” Prompto reiterates gently, eyes on Gladio’s profile. “Do you think you aren’t?”

“I think I should have noticed how much pain he is in and I haven’t and I think,” Gladio looks up ahead towards the gates of the memorial park, fences of winding wrought iron capped with snow, his jaw clenched. “I think I hurt him.”

Prompto remains quiet for a moment. He remembers Noct on his knees, unclipping his cloak from his raiment to cover his father’s decayed body when they had found him in one of the halls as the first sunrise in ten years filtered through the cracks in the walls, his crown the only trace left of who he used to be. He remembers feeling Noct’s magic weaken inside him over the few weeks following the Dawn, remembers watching him stand in the middle of the Hall of the Kings at night, trying to summon the Trident and his father’s sword again and again until Prompto could no longer bear the sound of his magic shattering. He remembers seeing him leaning against the wall outside of his office, his hand a tight fist over his heart, Ignis’ hand on his shoulder, whispering.

Prompto doesn’t know how to help Noctis, pain isn’t something he can aim and shoot dead, nothing he can disable with the barcode on his wrist. But he knows it is something that demands to be felt instead of being buried in and hiding it had never helped him. As they reach the gates, Prompto stops, turning to Gladio.

“Maybe what Noct needs isn’t his Shield,” he says, his voice tight with memory, soft like the quiet of snow. Gladio holds his gaze, shame and guilt shimmering in his eyes. “Maybe he needs his friend,” Prompto tells him and Gladio raises his head to the flaking sky, his adam’s apple bobbing around the knot Prompto can feel in his own larynx.

Prompto sniffs and wipes a gloved hand under his eyes before he looks towards the distant silhouette of the Citadel, a pale shadow behind a curtain of snow in slow descent.

“I don’t know how to make it better either, Gladio. I don’t know if we can,” he swallows, eyes of indicolite blue finding the amber brown.

“But you, Iggy and me…,” he smiles with all of their history beating in his heart. “We have always known how to be his friend.”

* * *

Noctis

Spring disembarks unto Lucis clad in the glow of butterscotch sunlight and the scent of jasmines. Eos drinks it in with such yearning, nature bursts from every nook and cranny, ruins of concrete stand dressed in vines, forests bared thin in the Long Night creaking under the weight of new foliage.

The Malacchi Hills stand tall in the horizon, lush green and alive under the vernal light as they drive along the expanse of Kettier Highlands, with not a cloud in sight. Through the tunnel of trees and the lace of leaves, light dances across the hood of the Maybach Exelero, an image so familiar it makes Noctis ache with longing, Prompto’s laughter in his ears, the smell of Ignis’ cooking a phantom sensation on his tongue. He can almost hear the crack of campfire. 

At the driver’s seat, Gladio sits with a hand on the wheel and the other propped against the door, resolutely avoiding eye contact.

“Noct, I can feel you stare,” he says keeping his gaze on the road, the wind tugging at his ponytail.

"You seriously won’t tell me where we are going,” Noctis asks, eyebrows raised. 

“Nope.”

“I am the King,” Noctis points out. “I can command you to tell me.” 

“Then why haven’t you already,” Gladio asks with a grin. Noctis can’t help but smile as well.

“Wait till I tell Ignis that I have been kidnapped.”

“Oh, Iggy’s in on it as well,” Gladio laughs as the Disc of Cauthess appears behind the hills along the bend of the road.

“This is a coup,” Noctis says decidedly, leaning back, Gladio’s laughter spilling mirth into the breeze.

For half an hour, they drive in easy silence. His gaze lost on the sun-drenched valleys of his kingdom, Noctis’ thoughts return to Insomnia with its streets filled with the shadows of his ancestors and its palace filled with memories that hold no sound. His days are visions that blur into one another, their weight and gravity a constant strain through every waking minute, just a mistake away from snapping loose. His mind only quiets when he sinks into the warmth of Ignis’ hold, the jade green his one haven, his light the polestar. He doesn’t know if he will ever find the balance between who he was and who he was meant to be, the compromise between the King that had to die and the man that didn’t. He doesn’t know if he has the strength when the whole of the Star relies on the King of Light, unaware that his light had dimmed with the sunrise. 

“Hey,” Gladio pulls him out of his head. “We’ll be back to the Citadel by evening. You’re okay.” 

Noctis pulls himself into the moment and watches Gladio leave the asphalt for a dirt road, even the feel of rough terrain under the wheels cut rifts into the past. In less than two minutes, he recognizes where they are and as the view of crystal green waters shimmering under the spring sun peeks through age-old pine trees, his heart warms with memory. The Forgotten Pool.

“Now I understand why you asked me to put on something comfortable,” he says, his voice a little unsteady with gratefulness.

“You can’t fish wearing a suit,” Gladio grins as he parks the car in a clearing behind the grove.

Noctis gets out of the car, walking to the edge of the water, nostalgia strong enough to steal a tremulous sigh from his chest as he closes his eyes to the quiet of it all. “You do know that I didn’t bring any gear, right?” he asks Gladio behind him. 

“About that,” Gladio says and pops Exelero’s trunk open. He carefully pulls out a fishing rod, black with gold gilded reel, dragon’s beard already lined. Noctis walks to him quietly and touches it as if it might break.

“This is-” Gladio begins, sun in his eyes. 

“My father’s,” Noctis finishes. He takes the rod in his hands, eyes skimming along the blank and the line guides, his fingers feather-light on the dents he can feel on the reel. It is light and real in his hands, sunlight gleaming off its sheen. Yearning lodges tight in his throat, its weight throbbing in his veins with every heartbeat.

“How did you-“ he manages, unable to finish. 

“It wasn’t in good shape when we found it,” Gladio replies, Noctis can feel his eyes on him, warm and present. “I had Iggy help me track down someone who could help fix it.”

Noctis looks up into his eyes, searching and then his mouth parts. “Navyth?”

“Yep,” Gladio practically beams and puts both hands on his hips, ink-black tattoos curling on his arms. “He is in Lestallum. Sends his regards to King Noct Gar.”

Noctis’ laughter spills into the bank, vibrant and true, and peals across the water startling a flock of birds mid-flight. When he quiets, he takes a moment to wipe tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. Full of memory and heartache, he keeps his eyes on the rod for a few breaths before he lifts his gaze to Gladio’s. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Gladio nods modestly. “Let’s go put it to good use.”

Maybe it should feel strange but it doesn’t. Habit and familiarity come to him like breathing, simple muscle memory. His hands remember what to do, his arms position themselves for the pull without conscious thinking, his feet dug in. The lure slowly spins on the surface of the water, enticement of motion and life for the shadows floating below. His concentration awakens with ease, drawn into fine, razor-sharp focus in a few breaths and he remembers why he used to love doing this. The deep abandon in the way he opens himself at this, all his senses reaching outwards rather than in, waiting for the sound, the movement, the tug at the end of his line. He savors the quiet that fills him, his heart calm, his hands steady. This has always been his escape.

It takes less than ten minutes before his lure slips beneath the water, the tug so abruptly strong Noctis is taken by surprise. Gladio drops his own line with a cry of elation and comes to his side. The fish pulls, swimming in a circle before bolting to try and tug itself loose and Noctis’ feet slip on the dock as he leads the fish. Gladio immediately puts his hand on his shoulder, steadying him as Noctis shifts his footing and regains his balance. The moment the fish eases of the line, he is reeling.

“That almost got me in,” Noctis says, “Thanks Gladio.” 

“I have no idea how you do this,” Gladio says, watching him reel the fish in. “I could be sitting here for five hours and not catch a thing; you cast a line and land the biggest fish in the lake. I swear sometimes I feel like you just know where they are.”

Noctis smiles, elastic and proud. “I guess I am just lucky.” Tired out, the fish stops resisting and Noctis draws it in, Gladio helping him pull it up on the dock. It is a spotted catfish, large enough that if Ignis were there and they were camping, it would have been their dinner.

Gladio pats him on the back. “You still got it.” Then he picks up the fish and walks back to Exelero before he laughs to himself. “You did this the first time too.” 

Noctis looks up at Gladio while relining the rod, “What do you mean?” 

Gladio pauses as he stores the fish in a portable freezer. “You don’t remember?”

“No,” Noctis frowns with puzzlement.

Gladio closes the freezer shut and walks to him. “You were this big,” he brings his hand at level with a point just above his knee. “Six at most. Your old man took you with him on one of his fishing trips. I was there too.”

Noctis watches his eyes fill with warmth as Gladio recalls and a desperate sense of longing ruptures in the pit of his being, his heart jolting awake at the mention of his father, a piece of him he doesn’t have, still a moment unlived. He feels famished with his memory. 

“He took you to a creek east of Insomnia. It was your first time fishing. He prepared his line all slow, showed you how to do it, and then he gave it to you, taught you how to cast,” Gladio continues as he comes to stand next to him, amber eyes radiant in the sun. “So you cast the line and you were holding it like a stick in your hand and almost immediately you got a bite so strong, it dragged you to the edge of the pier. Your dad caught you and showed you how to reel and you tried really hard for a few minutes but the fish was too big. You told your dad it was too heavy and you weren’t strong enough. He tried to encourage you but you didn’t think you could do it. So the old man knelt behind you, put his hands over yours on the pole and said-

“I’ll be your strength,” Noctis finishes. The memory crashes into him so hard, it knocks his breath away. He remembers the feel of him, the warmth of his hands, the solidness of him at his back, he remembers his voice, soft and gruff, full of patience and love, “He said… when you need it the most… I’ll be your strength,” he repeats, his eyes filling with tears, his voice breaking. He drops his father’s pole, turns around, turns away, and buries his face in his hands, unable to hold back. 

The silence across the Forgotten Pool cradles his gasps like raindrops into its stillness. Noctis drops to his knees by the water, the world he has saved a blur in his vision, the father he lost a hole in everything left behind. He feels the loss like a presence eternal, a ghost beside his bed, a whisper without sound, a touch without sense, a love he could never repay. The goodbye he never said burns through him with each breath, every memory a chance missed, everything he cherished now, his gift to him. To love a son meant to die, and die for him still… 

Gladio kneels beside him and pulls him into his chest, both hands on his shoulders, silent like the air, solid as the earth beneath his feet. In his hold, what’s left of his restraint crumbles and Noctis falls apart, holding onto him. The weight of his shame, the burn of his guilt, the bite of his resentment surge and overflow, tearing sobs through him until he is heaving with them. His hands clutched around Gladio’s shirt, he cries until his heaves ebb into tremulous sighs, his chest aching. 

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he whispers to Gladio, shaking his head, his eyes lit with fresh tears. 

Gladio doesn’t answer right away, Noctis feels him look away, out into the water, his hands still on his shoulders. When he talks, his voice is hoarse as if Noctis hasn’t been the only one crying. “Prophecies are really something,” he mutters to him. “There is always a danger, always a sacrifice, always some brilliant end... but never any mention of what comes after,” he says with old indignation. “As if Gods couldn’t be bothered with the rest.” 

His voice turns to him. “All that was taken from you, all that you sacrificed, they do not make you a weaker man. Noct, look at me.” 

Noctis lifts his head and finds his eyes bright with tears. The scars on his face, his pride, shadows of ink under the morning light. “You are the strongest man I know,” Gladio tells him, fierce and proud. “And when you feel you aren’t, “ he raises a hand to his own heart, “we’ll be your strength.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Gladiolus Amicitia.   
>  With this, I forgive you.
> 
> Blackstyx, this one is for you. Some people shoot like stars across the night sky, unexpected, full of a wish you never thought to make. I came here to find a place to tuck my love for these characters in and there you were, open and kind, full of encouragement and light. I won't forget the motivation you have given me, nor the beauty of your heart you refuse to see. Thank you for the laughter, for every understood reference, for the gentleness. Know that I'll be waiting for you with a box of kittens when you read this and think you don't deserve any of it.


End file.
